Rocks and Mountains
by bigredrobot
Summary: An accident occurs just after Darcy hands Elizabeth the letter at Rosings Park which forces him to confront the depth of his feelings. Hopefully it is not too late. Elizabeth/Darcy
1. The Letter

"This is for the best." Darcy told himself again, though it seemed the more he wished this to be true, the less he believed it possible. He had been patrolling her favorite park for the past half hour, taking long, methodical strides and repeating the same course over again. He was determined to not miss Eliz- no, Miss Bennet. She would always be Miss Bennet to him now. Never Elizabeth and never Mrs. Darcy. He tried unsuccessfully to push away the thought that one day she may be called another name, a Mrs._. An unbidden image of her walking cheerfully with her hand around the arm of some faceless man through a similar garden came to mind. They were laughing cruelly, as she was using every ounce of her inspired wit to tell the story of a most dreadful proposal she once had the displeasure of receiving. Darcy tried to clear himself of the image, but the faceless man became suddenly clearer and transformed into a smirking George Wickham.

Darcy firmly shook his head and strode more purposefully in another direction. This was the reason he needed to see her, why he had stayed up for most of the night to write the letter carefully tucked in his breast coat pocket. He had to warn her about Wickham. Those other matters of defending himself against her accusations and having a reason to see her again naturally were secondary to this more noble purpose. He bitterly reminded himself that it was his _gentlemanlike_ duty to warn her about the despicable rake she now considered her favorite. What Miss Elizabeth would do with that information should be of no consequence to him. This rationalization was of course insufficient to stop his imagination from playing out every possible response of hers to the letter. These ranged from her refusing to read it, or laughing at his misery, to her writing back, declaring her affection for him and begging forgiveness. Even in his imagination the latter seemed ridiculous.

He told himself again that this was best for him and for God's sake to stop these mad imaginings. How long had it been since he had properly been in control of his mind? How long since he had been able to spend an hour without imagining Eliz-Miss Bennet by his side, without wondering which witticisms she would use to counter the Bingley sisters or at which of his aunt's comments she might silently smirk, perhaps bringing him into her secret joke with a conspiratorial glance and arched brow. He often wondered which of Pemberly's gardens she would make her favorite, how he might take her to . . . _This is for the best._

She had been more gracious to him than he had been to himself, really, by not allowing him to marry so below his station when his own weakness had betrayed him. He reminded himself of all the formerly formidable reasons why Miss Bennet, no, rather Miss Bennet's situation, was insufficient to make her Mistress of Pemberley. Even these, which had seemed so important he thought them necessary to list yesterday during his disaster of a proposal, felt weak and shallow excuses. But it was no matter. He would move past this just as he had every other hardship of his life.

He stopped in his tracks as he heard a rustling near the gate, took a breath to steel himself for the task of facing her again, and strode towards it. Seeing her caused him more discomfort than he could have prepared for; it was one thing to imagine he would one day be free from her while he was alone, but in her presence, he felt even more attached than he had been before. Such a range of emotions warred within him upon seeing her face that he could not discern how he felt. He handed her the letter, heard himself say something, in what he could only hope was a level voice, and felt himself escaping her.

He did not travel far before he stopped and attempted to collect himself. It would not do for him to be seen in this state, exhausted and emotional, what emotion he did not even know. He leaned against a tree for support and breathed deeply, trying desperately to console himself to the idea that he would never see her again. He who had experienced so much loss in his young life wondered at his own inability to accept this new sorrow. He reminded himself of who he was, of his duties to his family name, to his estate, to Georgiana. He would move on, he had no other choice. He resolved to rid himself of Elizabeth Bennet's influence. He even told himself that he did not love her, not truly, that this was merely a very strong infatuation from which he would soon recover, and just as his breath was returning to a regular pace he heard a sound, a distant scream, that proved him very wrong indeed.

 _With no expectation of pleasure but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter._ She eagerly read, scarcely making sense of the words, and paid no attention whatsoever to her surroundings. Fully absorbed in the pages before her, she did not even notice the quickness of her pace; her feet seemed to move of their own volition in accordance with the rapid tumult of emotions she was experiencing. She could not, in her perturbed state of mind, have perceived when she left her familiar path. In her fury over Mr. Darcy's arrogant, self-righteous accounting of his separation of her dear sister and Mr. Bingley, in her heated desire to read the rest of the odious letter, to find _that_ man guilty on all counts, she could not have noticed how uneven the terrain had become. How could she have noticed that she was nearing the top of a very steep, rocky hill? She was just letting out a small exclamation over Mr. Darcy's inability to "condemn" himself for his actions against her Jane, when she felt her foot slip, and barely had time to scream before her world went dark.


	2. A Few Bits of Crumpled Paper

Mr. Darcy did not know how he knew that the sound he heard was Elizabeth's scream. It was distant and he had never heard her cry out before, but he knew, without question, that it was her. He felt himself freeze for a moment while the muscles in his body contracted in fear. His heart beat loudly, madly, for a few interminable seconds, before he found himself running in the direction of the cry. His thoughts were so rapid and fleeting that he could not make sense of them. He ran down the lane for what seemed like an eternity—too long, he thought, she couldn't have gone this far, before realizing she must have quit the path. Darcy forced himself to turn around and slow his pace, to focus on the ground in front of him and search for any clues of where to find her, but his mind was racing so that he could hardly process what he was seeing. Walking proved agonizing and after a few paces he sped into a jog, desperately scanning around the lane for something, anything that would tell him where she was, though he knew not at all what that might be.

Periodically he would call out her name, his voice seemed hoarse and disembodied, and with each lack of response he grew more desperate. He was quite near his starting point, the gate over which he had passed her the blasted letter, when he noticed a small dirt walk branching out from the main path. He ran down it, and even after it ended continued running, hoping more than believing that she might be there. He was about to return to the lane when he noticed a small fluttering ahead, and upon rushing nearer found it to be a piece of letter-paper, written in his own hand. She had been here. He snatched the page and called out her name again, louder and with more purpose this time. He half-expected a response and when one did not come he resumed running. He found his path becoming less even, and before he realized it, he was at the top of steep, rocky little hill, staring several feet below at a seemingly lifeless Elizabeth Bennet.

"No." He stumbled back from the ledge, reeling at the sight of her pale, unmoving body, the small, dark pool around her head and two pages waving in a limp fist. It could not be true; it was impossible that the lively woman with bright eyes and fiery wit, the woman who held him completely in her power, who disarmed him with a simple arch look, the woman who not an hour ago he was resolving to rid himself of, could be—gone. Not her. He climbed quickly down the hill, stumbling himself in his haste. Kneeling beside her head, he shook as he placed two fingers on the side of her neck. He prayed for a pulse.

She should feel warmer, he thought. He had imagined caressing her skin many times, but always there was warmth, always a pleasant reaction to his touch. He could not feel more removed from those visions now, when she was pale and unresponsive, and his fingers, pressed against her neck, felt clinical, like a medical tool that did not belong to him.

At first, he wasn't sure if the beat he felt was hers or his own, as blood seemed to be pounding in his ears, through his fingers, nearly out of his chest. After a moment of dreadful stillness, he felt it. It was faint, but it meant there was hope. "Thank God. Thank God, Elizabeth you are alive."

His relief came and went sharply, as he realized he needed to get her to help immediately. Gingerly, he lifted her head to assess the wound. It did not seem very deep, but was bleeding profusely. He clawed at his cravat until it came loose and pressed the makeshift bandage to the back of her head, willing the pressure of his hand to stop the bleeding. He stowed the pages of the letter and took her in his arms, careful to keep pressure on the bandage on her head. Despite the initial struggle of lifting her, which indeed was no simple task, he found himself able to carry her. If he had not been so panicked he might have noticed how well she fit there, but as it was, he was determining the most efficient, least dangerous path to the great house.

The quickest way back was up the rocky hill, which seemed as impossible to climb as a mountain with Elizabeth in his arms. He suddenly remembered coming here as a boy with Richard and pretending to do just that. The miniature mountaineers would race up the craggy slope, and when they failed would traipse through a narrow path back to the servant's entrance of Rosings, where they were sure to avoid Aunt Catherine and would often be met with some treat in the kitchen.

Remembering the direction, he strode as fast as was safe to do whilst avoiding brambles and low branches, not wanting to risk any further injury to Elizabeth. He paused only to move his fingers from their hold back to her neck, checking every few moments for the faint beat of hope that let him know he still had time. After a few moments on the overgrown path, he found himself in a familiar open space, and could clearly see the great house. Darcy's breathing was labored by the time he reached the front door, and between gasps of breath he shouted at the startled footman to fetch a doctor immediately. The young man ran off and what seemed like the entire household staff poured forth, drawn in by the commotion. Mrs. Worthington, the housekeeper, came forward and immediately set about tasks. She ordered two of the younger footmen to relieve Mr. Darcy of his burden, which he vehemently refused.

"A room. Any room with a bed and a fire. Lead me there." Darcy managed to bark out whilst fending off the attempts at help.

Mrs. Worthington did not think her Ladyship would approve of this sight at all, what with Master Darcy, the supposed future husband to Lady Anne, so indecorously clutching this limp bloody little woman. It seemed very un-respectable. She wondered if this creature in his arms was even a gentlewoman, and would probably have led Master Darcy to the servant's quarters had it not been for the very desperate and wild look on his features. She determined that of the two, she would rather handle Lady Catherine's wrath, and without more than a moment's hesitation for these thoughts to pass, she was in motion.

As she parted the crowd of servants, Mrs. Worthington ordered one of the younger maids, her face pale and mouth agape with shock, to run ahead and start a fire in the Blue room. Another more composed young woman was told to remove the counterpane and fetch towels and water. She barked out for someone to bring both clear alcohol and brandy and for one of the footmen to fetch Mr. Darcy's valet. "Everyone else is to resume their duties at once. Her Ladyship is breakfasting with Master Fitzwilliam and she will not be notified of this event before I deem the situation stable." She knew it would be impossible to care for the girl with Lady Catherine hovering about, and she thought it would be best not to have both the Lady and Master Darcy in the same room.

Mrs. Worthington led Mr. Darcy to the base of the great marble staircase and without waiting for the stubborn man to oppose her, she reached for the girl's legs to assist with the climb.

When they reached the landing, each of them quite out of breath, Mrs. Worthington allowed Mr. Darcy to resume the carriage of his charge and led him to the Blue Room. It was the smallest guest room, and so ornately decorated that it felt suffocating. The counterpane had been stripped from the bed and Darcy finally, gently released Elizabeth by laying her onto it.

Once relieved of his burden, Darcy nearly fell from the sheer emotional and physical exhaustion he had endured, but caught himself on a bed post. He now did not know what to do. His mission had been to get Elizabeth to safety, and with that done, he could not think of how to justify staying in her presence. Mrs. Worthington seemed to be of the same opinion, for almost as soon as Elizabeth had been laid down, she started shooing Darcy out of the room.

"It will not do, Master Darcy, for you to be seen in a woman's chambers." Sensing that he would not move she changed tactics. "Do you know her name, sir?"

"Elizabeth." He said hoarsely, instinctively looking past the housekeeper into the room they had just quitted. Mrs. Worthington fixed a stern gaze on Mr. Darcy until he remembered himself and the duty he owed Elizabeth, though a lady's reputation seemed a ridiculous thing to fixate on in this dire moment. His voice hardened. "Bennet. Her name is Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

Mrs. Worthington snapped to look at the girl on the bed who had so often been a guest at Rosings. She had not recognized her at first under the blood, and immediately felt sorry that such a lively young thing should have come to so much harm. At her questioning look, he continued. "I was walking this morning and heard a cry. I found her in the park, she must have fallen from a steep hill and hit her head on a rock. I carried her here."

"I see. You have done your duty as a _gentleman_ ," She stressed this word as if to remind him of the demands of propriety "and now we will do ours. Go rest now." As if on cue, a footman came into view carrying two bottles, closely followed by Darcy's valet, Mr. Williams. Mrs. Worthington took the brandy bottle from the boy and pressed it into the valet's hands. "Four fingers worth, I think, for shock. Lucas, give me the gin and follow Mr. Williams. He may need help with Master Darcy." Darcy felt himself trapped. He had no desire to have Elizabeth out of his sight, but he could see that staying would only gratify his own wishes and do nothing for her actual well-being. If she awoke, no, _when_ she awoke, she would desire her reputation intact. He allowed himself to be led away by the sure hand of his valet, his mind reeling, his body thoroughly exhausted, and feeling as though he might begin sobbing or yelling at the slightest provocation.

Not a moment later, the composed maid rushed by, towels and a pitcher of water stacked in her arms. "Jane, get inside, and start cleaning her head with the water. We'll use the gin once we get a clear look at the injury." Mrs. Worthington's orders brought Darcy to a halt. "Jane Bennet."

"Sir, that is Jane Catwright." Lucas provided.

"Jane Bennet is Miss Elizabeth's Bennet's sister. Her family will need to be notified. And Mrs. Collins, the parson's wife. Mrs. Collins should be here. Fetch her at once, but do not alarm her husband." And with that, Lucas was off to the parsonage.

Mr. Williams continued walking and Mr. Darcy followed. "Perhaps, sir, it would be best to wait until the doctor has visited before notifying the lady's family. That way you will have something more substantial to report. It would not do to worry them unnecessarily." Mr. Williams said this with as much gentleness and encouragement as he thought Mr. Darcy could bear. He was a perceptive older man. He understood that this woman was the reason his master had been acting so strange lately and that he was suffering more than he was able to let on. Mr. Williams had been there when the late Master Darcy past, and had watched in awe how the younger man bore the responsibilities as well as his grief. Then Williams had been impressed with Darcy's composure. Now he was quite sure the young man had reached a breaking point.

"Yes, I think you are right Williams. Darcy could not register what was happening. He was near delirium. He allowed his valet to lead him into his room and strip him of his outer clothes, which he only then realized were spotted with blood. When hanging the coat, Williams found three crumpled pages of letter paper and with a great degree of professionalism, placed them on a side table. Upon seeing them, Darcy inexplicably burst out laughing. It seemed entirely absurd that not a few hours ago the contents of those pages had been his greatest concern. He stayed up most of the night to write the damned thing and here they were, simply a few bits of crumpled paper. He laughed with a more sickening force at his own arrogance in assuming he would be better off without her. How bitterly did he regret every uncharitable thought he had towards her? How insignificant did her mother's mercenary tactics or her father's disinterest in parenting seem now! Had not his inflated pride demand he write these excuses onto parchment, had he not given them to her, she never would have strayed from her familiar grove.

Naturally, as happens when passionate feelings are tightly repressed and when the barriers holding those feelings are broken down due to a combination of exhaustion and trauma, the laughter turned to sobs. Williams, ever the professional, poured a hearty four fingers of brandy and quietly left the room.


	3. Resolution Be Damned!

Darcy could not indulge in his overwrought feelings for long. Nearly as soon as his empty glass hit the table, the distant sound of his aunt's voice roused him into motion. There would be much explanation on his part. He might need to send for the Bennet family or for a physician from town. There was the potential too that his aunt would be inhospitable or get in the way of Elizabeth's care, and he would need to be at his best to combat her without giving his attachment away. Mrs. Collins would be on her way soon and he did not want to add to her shock with his gruesome appearance. If controlling his feelings to play a disinterested gentleman was the best way he could help Elizabeth, then he would simply have to do it.

While he washed his hands and face, Elizabeth's blood turned his basin water pink. He was reminded for a moment of Lady Macbeth's madness. "Would these hands ne'er be clean?" He could never be clean from guilt for giving her the letter that led to her harm, or the ghastly proposal beforehand. In fact, every interaction he had ever had with her led to this. Last night, he had replayed each moment of their acquaintance and had seen only her scorn for him. He had comforted himself in the self-righteous assertion that she was willfully ignorant of his merits. Now, he wondered if he had always been causing her pain; if truly, while she gifted him with her intelligence, vibrancy, and joy, he had returned to her nothing but pride, haughtiness, and the "selfish disdain of the feelings of others". He found that the recalled words did not elicit anger, or even embarrassment, as they had last night, but rather a profound sense of shame. If he truly considered it, he had not been thinking of Miss Bennet's feelings when he proposed; he sought only to gratify his own. He felt the truth of her words for the first time, and was surprised to find gratitude among his feelings. He felt as though up until this moment he never knew himself, and it was Elizabeth's courage and honesty which allowed him to do so. He vowed to change, to be a man worthy of her respect and regard, even if she would never give it. Though he knew such a thing would be a process, done not in a moment, he would start now, both for her and for himself.

Despite the tumult of his mind, Darcy was able to clean himself off and don not only a clean cravat, but his familiar coat of indifference. He was met by Mr. Williams, who assisted him in dressing and gave him news of the house.

"Lady Catherine is asking for you sir. She does not know what has transpired with Miss Bennet nor your involvement, but I believe she can sense that there is something amiss. She accosted Lucy, a young housemaid, to discover the source of unrest, and though Lucy did not say anything, the poor girl was quite distraught."

"I expect her silence only served to make my aunt more determined."

The image of Lady Catherine fuming and fairly shrieking for the absent Mrs. Worthington came to Williams' mind and caused him to smile. "Ahh, yes, sir, quite right. If I may be so bold, I think it may be best to confront the Lady before the situation escalates."

"I agree Williams. It will not do to have the doctor arrive and be delayed by her interference." Remembering his resolution, he thanked Williams and asked if he wouldn't mind checking in on the girl, Lucy, to make sure she was alright. With that, Darcy swiftly departed. He was a man of action, he reminded himself, and there was nothing to do but be direct with his aunt. It was not difficult to find her, as her heightened state of disturbance carried her voice.

"Richard Fitzwilliam, I insist that you discover your cousin. I demand to know what is the matter. First Darcy misses breakfast, and you know it is very unlike him to disappoint Anne, and now Mrs. Worthington has disappeared and the housemaid is blubbering about. This is poor repayment indeed for my benefaction! To be kept in the dark in my own home! It is not to be borne. You find your cousin, Richard and you tell him that I am very put out. Very put out indeed. That will make him come."

"There will be no need for that, Aunt, I am here." Had Darcy entered the breakfast room under any less dire circumstance, he would have struggled to hide a smirk. The image of Lady Catherine towering over a seated Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was desperately trying to avert her gaze by cramming a roll into his mouth, would have reminded him sharply of all the times they received scoldings from their aunt as children. As it was, he had little emotional capacity for humor.

"Darcy! Where have you been? We have been worried about you. It is very unlike you to keep poor Anne waiting. She has left breakfast to rest, but I am sure if I call her down she will come. There has been quite a commotion this morning you have missed." The shift in her demeanor from intimidating to soothing was immediate, and a bit sickening. Ever since his father's death, Aunt Catherine had treated him as a very precious possession. Richard, who always found the contrast in her treatment of the two of them amusing, shot his cousin a roll-filled grin, which was not reciprocated.

"Aunt I have distressing news to share that I believe will explain your commotion. You may wish to sit to hear it. Richard, I expect you would like to know as well." Lady Catherine was unaccustomed to taking an invitation to sit from anyone in her own home, even from her future son in law, and she might have told him so if not for the very desperate desire to know what transpired. Richard, expecting a retort, only raised his eyebrows when his aunt wordlessly sat.

"This morning I went for a walk and I found Miss Bennet . . . " Darcy suddenly found his throat and chest constrain. The image of Elizabeth laying at the foot of the cliff, the feeling of horror at thinking she was gone, the panic and guilt and deep pain and relief and worry momentarily overpowered him. Anyone who had not spent their entire adult life carefully guarding their emotions might have been unable to continue, but Darcy, a true master of restraint, merely cleared his throat. "Ahem. I found Miss Bennet unconscious at the base of a rocky hill. She appeared to have fallen and hit her head. She is here now and I have sent for a doctor. I believe Mrs. Worthington is caring for her directly." Exhausted by this speech, Darcy sat.

"She is here! Under my roof and without my knowledge? Where is she Darcy? I demand to see her!"

"She was taken to a guest room and I believe she remains unconscious, Aunt. There would be no point in you seeing her."

"To think I should have my parson's poor cousin staying as a guest in my home! What has she done to earn such distinction but fall on a rock? Why was she not taken to the parsonage directly? And what was she doing walking out by herself at all? It seems very improper."

"Aunt, she is a gentleman's daughter, she should be treated as a guest. And I'm sure Darcy only took her wherever was closest. Is there anything I can do for her Darcy? I can ride out to fetch a physician or send word to her family?" Colonel Fitzwilliam, in his earnest attempt to help, failed to realize his error, though Lady Catherine picked up on it right away.

"Took her? What do you mean he _took_ her? Darcy explain yourself. How did Miss Bennet come to be in my house?"

"I carried her here. As I said, she hit her head and was unconscious. Her life was, and likely still is, in danger, Aunt. There were no other options."

"Carried her? Unaccompanied? There are always other options Darcy! You should have ran back and sent footmen with a carriage or gone and fetched Mr. Collins, as the girl is his responsibility, not yours. The mercenary little chit likely expected this to happen and will make a claim upon you Darcy, mark my words.

"Aunt Catherine you go too far! Miss Bennet is a respectable and very intelligent young woman. It is impossible to think she would risk her own safety on the hopes that Darcy would run along and save her." Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed at the lady's accusations but Darcy remained silent, fists and jaw clenched tightly. He could feel anger creep up his neck into his face. He made an effort to calm himself by remembering his former resolution. If Miss Bennet were here in this room, how would she want him to behave?

"You both are ignorant to the lengths a poor woman will go to force herself ahead in society. It all makes sense to me now. I understand her surreptitiousness far more than either of you for I have information that you do not. Miss Elizabeth Bennet is one of five daughters and her father's estate is entailed away to my parson, Mr. Collins. She has no money, little education, a fearful impertinent streak, and only meager charms to recommend her. I sent Mr. Collins to Longbourne, her family's estate, with the express intention that he choose a wife from among the five daughters. And here is the information you cannot know, nephews. He offered for her! Mr. Collins offered _that girl_ a chance to keep her family's estate and she refused. He told me in a letter that he was saved from a most unacceptable match by the impertinence of one of the Bennet girls and chose the current Mrs. Collins instead. Who else could he possibly mean? It made no sense to me then how a girl with no prospects could throw away her future so carelessly, but now I understand! She had already set her cap at you, nephew, and was plotting to advance well above her station. There is no other explanation for it. And what do you say now?"/p

"Your story rather indicates that Miss Elizabeth could not be swayed by material concerns and perhaps would choose to marry only where mutual affection and respect exist, something I would think impossible with the likes of Mr. Collins." Darcy tried to remain cool but found himself failing. How dare Lady Catherine call Elizabeth mercenary! How dare she disgrace Elizabeth with her disgusting and ironic accusations! And how dare that oaf of a parson think for a moment he was worthy of her hand! Darcy found it more difficult to retain his composure than he expected.

Lady Catherine stood and cried: "The girl has nothing to recommend her! She has nothing to bring to a match but poverty and disgraceful relations! She has an uncle in _trade_ and the other an attorney! Who could rejoice in such lowly connections? She has no hope of moving up in society and will be forced to marry outside the gentry if not for some scheming compromise such as this! I expect she is not even badly injured, and only means to separate you from Anne! But no matter. No one here will corroborate her story. She will be removed to the parsonage at once and never recognized here again."

It was amazing to hear the arguments which had kept him from offering for Elizabeth's hand emerge from his aunt's mouth. How foolishly had he decided the inferiority of her connections was not related to money? Was his aunt not proof that shameful relations came in all circles? How proud had he been of his position in society and now how sick was he to realize how similar he was to Lady Catherine? Mrs. Bennet might have been mercenary but she wouldn't deny an injured girl a bed in her home. The silliest of the Bennet girls would not concoct such a dramatic tale of duplicity as his aunt insisted on. And Mr. Bennet, though perhaps aloof and unwilling to reign in his family, was certainly preferred to the extreme scrutiny and presumptuousness of his aunt. Elizabeth's perceived inferior position was nothing, _nothing_ to the superiority of her person.

Darcy felt a sharp pang of rage, both towards himself and his aunt, and his patience with both had run out. He stood and shouted, resolution be damned.

"She will not be moved! Miss Elizabeth Bennet is in grave danger and she will stay here with the highest degree of comfort and care until she is fully recovered. You will not interfere, in any way Aunt, nor make such abominable claims against her character to anyone! She is a young lady, a gentleman's daughter, who has shown herself only to be deserving of kindness and respect, not the blasphemy I have heard you spew today. Is that clear?" Though Darcy spoke no threat, his look and voice were murderous. Lady Catherine was too dependent upon him for the oversight of her estate to endanger the connection, and her hopes that he would still marry her daughter prevented her from protest. Richard, who rarely saw any emotional displays from Darcy, had a moment of wonder and then comprehension dawned. Of course Darcy would go and fall in love with the woman he seemed to detest.

There was a moment of dreadful silence where each party held themselves back from exclaiming farther, when the presence of Mrs. Collins was announced.

"Lady Catherine, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. Darcy, where is Elizabeth?" Without a word, Darcy exited the room with Mrs. Collins quickly following behind.

AN: Thank you to anyone who continues to read or has left a review. Those reviews really motivated me to continue this story. A special shout out to regency 1914 for noticing an error in chapter 2. Any comments or questions are appreciated, and chapters should be updated far more regularly from here on out!

Special thank you to those who alerted me of formatting and nickname errors :)


	4. A Most Unplanned, Irrational Thing

Charlotte Collins was never one to give in to panic, and in this way, she and Darcy were perfect companions. She followed him briskly up the stairs, and asked questions in such a matter-of-fact way, without judgment, that he felt no resistance in answering them.

"Yes, the doctor has been sent for. I was advised to refrain from writing her family until there was some more news to give, but I defer to your judgment in this regard." This was much easier for Darcy, the almost methodical back and forth of sensible questions and answers. He felt relieved that he could be of some service and that there was someone he could consult who also cared for Elizabeth.

Darcy paused for a moment at the door to the Blue Room. He was suddenly very nervous to enter. "Miss Elizabeth was not conscious when I last saw her, Mrs. Collins. I do not know her present state. I want to prepare you that the sight of your friend may be shocking."

If Charlotte noticed that Mr. Darcy said this as much for his sake as her own, she made no indication of it, and replied with a curt nod. He knocked.

Mrs. Worthington filled the doorway, blocking sight of Elizabeth. "Mr. Darcy, there has been no change, I understand—" She looked about to reprimand him when she caught sight of Charlotte.

"Mrs. Worthington, Mrs. Collins has come to see her friend Miss Elizabeth and she needs access to this room."

"Yes, of course dear, come in. I'll have Jane fix you some tea. I'm afraid there isn't much we can do for your friend until the doctor comes." Mrs. Worthington had taken Charlotte by the arm and was skillfully pulling her into the room while blocking entry to Mr. Darcy.

Though a moment ago he feared seeing Elizabeth, the idea that he would not see her caused him a silent, imperceptible panic. That he would be denied entry because of his aunt's housekeeper's inflated standard of propriety was absurd. That he could advocate for his presence without exposing his feelings for Elizabeth seemed impossible.

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for delivering Mrs. Collins. I'll be sure to inform you if there are any changes in Miss Bennet's health." Darcy struggled to respond to this clear dismissal. He blinked, opened his mouth once, closed it, and did not move his feet an inch. His anxiety at the thought of leaving was clear to Charlotte.

"Mrs. Worthington, Mr. Darcy said he would be kind enough to stay with me. I am quite distraught and do not want to be left alone. I would not wish to burden you or any of the staff by having you keep my company." Charlotte glanced at Darcy as she said this, willing him to confirm her tale.

"Yes. I-I have agreed to accompany Mrs. Collins." The housekeeper did not look convinced. "When we left the breakfast room Lady Catherine was asking for you, Mrs. Worthington, and we feared that you would be needed elsewhere."

Mrs. Worthington's suspiciousness changed to alarm at the sound of Lady Catherine's name. "Is her Ladyship aware of the situation?"

"Yes. I informed her of the particulars myself. She seemed very eager to meet with you; I'm sure my aunt wants to make preparations for the care of Miss Bennet whilst she is a guest at Rosings."

Mrs. Worthington was sure that was _not_ what Lady Catherine wanted to speak about, but could waste no more time here. She decided it was not so improper for Mr. Darcy to be in a lady's room after all. He did have a chaperone, and the Miss Bennet would do nothing but lie there. Besides, she could keep sending Jane or Ruby in to check on things.

"I'll send Jane up for tea then. Please make yourselves comfortable, and ring if you need anything." With that, Mrs. Worthington ushered Darcy in and closed the door on her way out.

The sound of the door clicking shut seemed to refocus both Charlotte and Darcy on the reason they were here: Elizabeth. Charlotte hastened around the bed to Elizabeth's side and immediately began soothing her non-responsive friend. She held and kissed her hand, pushed locks of hair away from her bandaged brow, and whispered words of affection. Darcy stayed rooted to the spot, staring at Elizabeth. Save the bandages, she looked more peaceful than he had seen her last, as though she were sleeping. She wore a modest nightdress which was much too large for her, likely borrowed from a servant, that made her seem even smaller than she was. Her usually vibrant face was uncommonly pale, and the hand closest to Darcy, which just poked out of the long night dress sleeve, seemed far too frail to belong to Elizabeth.

"Mr. Darcy, forgive me if I misinterpreted your expression. I thought before that you wished to stay, but if you do not, please feel no obligation to remain. I am truly not so distraught as I made out." Mrs. Collins sat in a chair on the other side of the bed, both of her hands wrapped fiercely around one of Elizabeth's own. Her voice was more fragile than Darcy remembered, and she had silent tears rolling down her face.

"I do wish to stay. Thank you, Mrs. Collins, for allowing me to be here." He moved slowly to take the chair on the side of the bed nearest him. He was so close to Elizabeth, mere inches away, and yet he felt as though there were an impenetrable barrier between them. He envied Mrs. Collins' ability to openly show her love for Elizabeth. He longed to hold her hand, to feel the pulse of her wrist, however faint, which would assure him that she still lived.

"Is her pulse any stronger, Mrs. Collins?"

Charlotte turned Elizabeth's wrist to check. Darcy held his breath as he watched Mrs. Collins' impassive face. When, after an exceedingly long moment, she set down Elizabeth's hand and moved her own to Elizabeth's neck, now more desperately searching for a pulse, Darcy stood in panic.

"She cannot— she cannot be—" Darcy was struggling to breathe, much less think or speak, until he saw Mrs. Collins exhale.

"There is a pulse. She's still here, Mr. Darcy." Charlotte's relief at this momentary panic brought on a fresh wave of tears, but through them she recognized her own feelings, though perhaps better guarded, on Mr. Darcy's features.

When Mrs. Collins heard the news of Lizzy's injury, she faltered for only a moment before making arrangements. She told the housemaid that she would not be expected home for dinner, ordered Maria to distract Mr. Collins for as long as she could, and rode alone, something she had not attempted in years, on the horse the Rosings boy had come on. She had remained calm and collected for as long as she could. She wanted to know more about what happened and planned her questions on the ride over. She pushed aside any feelings of panic until she had taken care of what she needed to do, until she saw her dear Lizzy lying there and could contain herself no longer. Even as she cried, she restrained herself from exposing the real depth of her feelings. Charlotte Collins planned her words and actions; she was exceptionally rational, but when she saw Mr. Darcy with the same look of overwhelming, desperate, confused relief that she felt, she said a most unplanned, irrational thing.

"You love her too." It was not a question.

Darcy's head snapped to meet Mrs. Collins' eyes. He found there only understanding. He could not deny such a true statement, nor, if he was honest with himself, did he wish to.

"Yes." The two held their gaze until roused by Jane with the tea. "Here you are Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Collins. Should you be needing anything else?" The young woman seemed at first oblivious to, and then terrified of the tension in the room.

"No, thank you Jane." Mrs. Collins turned away from Mr. Darcy and took her place beside the tray as Jane scurried away. "Do you take strong or weak tea, Mr. Darcy?"

"Strong." The tension was by no means lifted. How was it possible that a moment ago he had confessed his love for Miss Bennet, and now they were talking about tea?

"Her pulse. Mr. Darcy, you asked earlier if Lizzy's pulse was stronger than earlier. I had nothing to compare it to and was just relieved to find one. It did seem weak though. Should you check to see if it is stronger than it was?"

Darcy hesitated. Here was a reason, an invitation, really, to do what he most wanted and feel the comfort of Elizabeth's hand, to feel that she was alive, yet he knew he could not touch her. The impenetrable shield he felt earlier was not due to propriety, but Elizabeth's own expressed wishes. "Mrs. Collins, I do care for—that is, I do—I love Miss Elizabeth. She does not return my regard, to say the least. She would not approve of my touch, I am sure of it. She barely had a pulse before. I struggled to find it, and it sounds as though it is about the same." There was a pause wherein Mrs. Collins evaluated Darcy carefully.

"Cream or sugar, Mr. Darcy?" Mrs. Collins turned to face him with a small, sympathetic smile.

"A bit of each, please."

"Lizzy is very stubborn, Mr. Darcy." Charlotte smiled more fully as she poured the cream and fondly looked at Elizabeth. "Very, very stubborn. She dislikes the trouble of changing her opinions once they've been formed." She handed Mr. Darcy his tea and went to fix her own.

"Thank you." Darcy reflected on how similar this sounded to his own words at Netherfield. "Her good opinion once lost, is it lost forever?"

Charlotte evaluated him as she returned to her seat. "I think, that dear Lizzy is too cheerful a creature to form an immoveable dislike of anyone, though she might like to think herself capable of such a thing. She does not like changing her mind, but she is wise enough to put in the effort when needed."

"I believe I helped her form a rather poor opinion of me." Mr. Darcy looked very grave as he said this, staring down at Elizabeth and speaking more to himself than to Mrs. Collins.

At this, Charlotte surprised Mr. Darcy by releasing a soft laugh. "Yes, Mr. Darcy, I believe you did. I doubt Lizzy has forgotten that she was deemed not handsome enough to dance with. It entertained us for at least a week." Charlotte stroked Elizabeth's face fondly, as if assuring her that she was indeed handsome enough, and not to pay heed to the uncharitable Mr. Darcy.

"She overheard me?" Darcy looked at Elizabeth's still face and wished he could retract those disgusting words. Even with her bright eyes and spirit masked, he could not help but think her beautiful. And if she was plain, or even ugly, such words should never have been thought, much less spoken loud enough to be overheard, by a gentleman. Her words from last night flashed back at him. If only he _had behaved in a more gentleman-like manner_. From the very beginning then, the very first moments of their acquaintance, he had truly given her a reason to be disgusted by his pride and conceit. He laughed bitterly, realizing how he had created such a poor first impression. It was no wonder that she thought as she did of him. He had proved himself abominable in every regard.

"Mr. Darcy, forgive me, I am not myself today, but that is no excuse. I should not have said anything."

"Mrs. Collins, it was I who should have never said those unpardonable words. They were untrue and unjust, and though there is no excuse, I was also not myself that night."

Mrs. Collins looked about to respond with something consoling, when Mrs. Worthington opened the door to announce the presence of a Mr. Collins.

AN: Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to continue reading this story, and a special shout-out to all of the kind reviewers. Not only do reviews make my day, they really encourage me to keep writing! Thanks for all of the encouragement! Cheers!


	5. A Sacred Duty

AN: Thank you to each and every person who has continued reading! I decided to continue this story and you should find more frequent updates in the future. Happy reading!

Mr. Collins was pompous, ignorant, and worst of all had the audacity to offer for Elizabeth's hand. Darcy composed his features and braced himself for a tirade of obsequious blathering, but found himself faced with something worse.

Mr. Collins entered the room with all the self-important gravity of a king announcing war. He wore such a solemn expression that he momentarily caught both Darcy and Mrs. Collins off-guard. When they stood at his announcement, Mr. Collins held up a hand of dismissal and made a great show of shaking his head in what he must have thought was a very dignified manner. For what may have been the first time in his life, the man said nothing. He moved slowly to Elizabeth's bed and attempted to remove Darcy from his position there with a wave of his hand, as if parting the red sea. Darcy did not move.

Mr. Collins seemed a bit put out that he was forced to compromise his grand performance by speaking, but used as deep and momentous a tenor as he could muster. "Mr. Darcy, you must remove yourself and allow me to perform my sacred duty."

"Husband, please explain yourself. Why have you come here?" Mrs. Collins spoke in such a flat, nearly exasperated manner that Mr. Collins' pretention seemed quite ridiculous by comparison. Becoming flustered, he slipped into his more comfortable simpering.

"Mrs. Collins, while I have the highest respect for you and appreciate your excellent reason in all things, in this, I believe my station as an agent of the church, and as a representative of my most distinguished patroness Lady Catherine De Bourg, equips me with superior judgment. It is beyond the comprehension of a woman, even one as admirable yourself, to understand the duty of a clergyman."

Darcy felt the heat of anger creep up his neck. Mr. Collins believed he had a reason for all his pompous affectation. He enjoyed this situation and had no apparent interest in his cousin's well-being. Darcy had an uncomfortable suspicion of Mr. Collins' true purpose.

"Mr. Collins, I too care to know your intentions in being here."

"Mr. Darcy, as the nephew of my esteemed patroness, I have the utmost respect for you—"

"Mr. Collins—" Darcy worked to keep his voice low. If that man presumed what he thought—it would be too much. That Mr. Collins continued his speech only angered him further.

"Lady Catherine herself has informed me of the prodigious care you took of my most unfortunate cousin. I extend to you my sincere gratitude as her temporary guardian, and relieve you of any obligation you may feel to remain here. Indeed, I feel it my duty to inform you that your most excellent aunt disproves of your continued involvement in Miss Elizabeth's situation. Lady Catherine believes my cousin's irresponsibility led to her injury, and as much as I admire my dear cousin, I must agree with my patroness."

"Mr. Collins. I have as little intention of leaving as I have patience left. Please answer very plainly. What is your purpose in being here?" Though Darcy's voice did not raise a decibel above what was decorous, this did not seem a lasting arrangement.

Pulling himself up to his full height, Mr. Collins gravely spoke. "I am here to perform the Sacrament of Holy Unction for my dear dying cousin, as is my sacred duty."

Darcy looked murderous. Though he had expected as much, to hear the rambling idiot actually say that he came to perform the last rites, that Mr. Collins presumed Elizabeth to be on her death bed, and to continue enjoying his inflated sense of importance in spite of, or because of this fact, it _was_ too much. She was not dying. There must still be hope, and this oaf of a man would not deprive him of it with ceremony.

"Mr. Collins!" It was not Darcy who spoke first, though he saw his own anger, touched by disgust and an added layer of placidity, mirrored on Mrs. Collins' face.

"How came you to presume that Lizzy required such a ceremony? She has not been met by a doctor and her pulse is steady. Your services are neither needed nor desired, husband, and I believe we should leave."

There was a terrible moment of stillness where Mr. Collins seemed to struggle for a response. He stared blankly, blinking a few times at Charlotte, who reached to give Elizabeth's hand a parting squeeze. Mr. Darcy was both grateful for Mrs. Collins' quick thinking, and aware that without her in the room, he would also have to leave Elizabeth.

"Mr. Darcy, please forgive my wife's outburst! She must be overwhelmed by Miss Elizabeth's state. We must sympathize with the irrational emotions and occasional well-intentioned improprieties of the gentler sex." Mr. Collins threw Darcy a conspiratorial smile and was met with open disgust before continuing. "Though, even in times of distress, the wife of a clergyman must remember her station." Here Mr. Collins made a show of raising his eyebrows at Charlotte as though to chide his chiding wife.

"Yes husband, I am distraught. Perhaps we should go so that I don't disturb the residents of Lady Catherine's house any longer with my excessive emotions." Mrs. Collins stared blankly at her husband with so much grace in the face of ridiculous that it seemed as if she had never expressed an irrational emotion in her existence.

Dear Mr. Collins was horribly at a loss for what to say. Things were not at all going to his plan. Lady Catherine had specifically told him to remove Mr. Darcy and to perform the Holy Unction for Elizabeth, and now he seemed at risk of failing on both counts! She had stated plainly that his cousin was near death, having fallen off some cliff, likely from her headstrong ramblings and intentions of snaring Mr. Darcy. That a relation of his would attempt to seduce someone in Lady Catherine's family was as selfish as it was appalling! He was sure Elizabeth had meant no harm; he well knew how his cousin lacked discretion in where she bestowed her charms, but she would not disgrace herself by aiming so high above her station. It was his duty to Elizabeth as her guardian to preserve the family honor, and Her Ladyship's good graces, by settling the matter quickly. Oh, there would be time for mourning later, and he was already planning some condolences he thought very heartfelt to include in a letter to his relations, but a man of the cloth must not allow worldly attachments to interfere with his work. Yet, Mr. Collins was well obstructed from his task by two very worldly and angered beings. He could not understand why Mr. Darcy refused to leave after he had generously released him from any sense of obligation. And Mrs. Collins! Why she chose such an inconvenient time to give over to her feminine sensibilities, Mr. Collins could not understand. He was saved from responding by a knock on the door.

Dr. Miles Horton was not unaccustomed to being called to Rosings on "urgent" matters. His most visited patient was easily Miss Anne De Bourg. It seemed that every time the poor woman coughed or sneezed her mother demanded his immediate assistance, though he often questioned the rationale. Once there, Lady Catherine barely let him examine the Miss, so incessant was her chatter about the proper way to give examinations. With all her "expertise" it was a wonder, really that she bothered to call for him so often. Dr. Horton was therefore not alarmed by the sight of one of the Rosings boys, Charles, flying down the slope to his home on horseback. He sat and patiently sipped tea in wait for the news of today's ailment. Perhaps this time Miss Anne would have the decency of running a fever and he would not feel the trek to and from the great house completely wasted.

When Charles was let in, however, the boy did not spare time to chat as usual, he looked as if he had seen a ghost.

"Dr. 'Orton, come quick! A lady up at the 'ouse 'as fell and 'ere's blood erryware."

Horton was in motion at once, bag in hand, speeding off to Rosings. Once there he was greeted by a confusing stillness. He usually entered the house as though there was a state of emergency. Lady Catherine would meet him at the door, exclaim over his lateness, and hurry him to Miss Anne's room while badgering him with her diagnosis. The staff would usually look anxious, likely more about Her Ladyship's overbearing nature than worry for Miss Anne's health, but Dr. Horton thought he would have preferred that situation: the scrambling footmen and unsolicited advice, to the quiet house he entered. There was the perfect appearance of calm. A footman smoothly let him in and disappeared, there were no other servants, no Lady Catherine, no chaos, and yet he felt that for once a real tragedy had occurred.

Mrs. Worthington finally relieved him of his eerie reflection. "Dr. Horton, follow me if you please."

"Mrs. Worthington, what happened?" Horton, usually accosted with idle information, sought answers during the walk to the Blue room.

"A young lady staying at the parson's fell in the park and hit her head something horrible. Mr. Darcy dragged her in here. I tried to clean her up as best I could, but to be honest, I don't know if there's much hope in it. The girl won't wake up, and you've never seen a living body so pale. It's a shame too. She's young, and seemed so alive just the other day. She went and said something snarky to the Lady that had all the maids giggling below stairs."

Mrs. Worthington knocked, and the door was opened to reveal the missing chaos. The smallest room he had ever seen in Rosings now filled with five standing adults, seemed quite cramped by both bodies and tension.

"Ah- if you please, I need the room to examine the patient."

The effect of Dr. Horton's small speech was immediate. The tallest man, who looked vaguely familiar, gave a sigh of relief, and Mrs. Collins was fast in motion. She took her husband's arm and steered him out of the room before he had time to voice the protest on his mouth. As Dr. Horton moved to allow them exit, he thought he overheard mumblings of "most displeased" and "sacred duty". The other gentleman in the room stepped aside from the bed but did not leave the room.

"Dr. Horton, as soon as you have an assessment, please find me in the library. I am sure Mrs. Worthington will show you the way." Dr. Horton had before heard that tone of subtle pleading, had seen the desperation in the eyes of his patients' loved ones. It suddenly struck him that he had seen it on this particular man before, though then it was on the face of a teenager, worried over a young sister's turned ankle.

"You must be Mr. Darcy. You found the lady, is that correct?" Dr. Horton moved to examine the young woman in bed.

"Yes. In the park. She seemed to have fallen off a ledge and hit her head on a rock."

"Was she conscious when you found her?" The doctor asked this while gently feeling her neck and wrists.

"No."

"How long ago was this?" This question startled Darcy. It seemed years had passed since his largest concern was delivering that damned letter. He glanced at his pocket watch and balked.

"Just four hours." The doctor recognized that look of shock and knew that for someone who cares for a sick or injured person, minutes seem like hours.

"Mrs. Worthington says the young lady had the gall to challenge Lady Catherine." The still present housekeeper looked aghast and missed the doctor's smile. She expected to be rebuked for the impertinence of talking about the family. To her surprise, Master Darcy emitted a short laugh.

"Yes. I believe Miss Elizabeth has gall to spare."

"She must have a strong constitution, I do not believe I could go against the Great Lady in anything. That's a note in her favor. Please allow me to examine her. I will meet you in the library when I am finished."


	6. Three Days

"Her condition has not changed."

It had been more than two days since the incident, but this felt like an eternity for Darcy. He had fallen into a deeply troubled, hazy state, as if in a nightmare from which he could not escape. Dr. Horton's visits were the most stable part of this sleepless dream and provided some semblance of routine. Each day the doctor came in the morning and evening to examine Elizabeth, during which time treacherous whisperings of hope would infect Darcy's heart and mind. Surely this time, something had changed, surely this time she showed some small sign of recovery. Yet Elizabeth remained the same, and his hollowed hopes left him feeling emptier still.

After the first examination, Dr. Horton had explained the condition to Darcy to the best of his abilities. Elizabeth was unconscious but was breathing and had a steady heartbeat. Her head injury was not deep, but the impact likely caused a concussion. Her other injuries, including extensive bruising, some minor cuts, and a sprained wrist, were not sources of concern. There was no way to tell if or when she would wake, but if she did not do so after three days, she likely would not at all.

"Three days." Darcy had repeated the words numbly.

"Yes. It is not an absolute rule, you understand, but I have not heard of any others who have awoken after that point. She will not take food or water and her energy will deplete over time."

"How likely is it—" There was that note of desperation again. In his years of experience, the good doctor had found that this line of questioning was more suited for the card table than his profession.

"There is no way to say, Mr. Darcy. She is a healthy young woman, and the human spirit is no small factor in this equation. There is still hope yet."

"Can anything be done to assist her?" The doctor now remembered Mr. Darcy as the diligent young man who read his sister stories while her ankle was set, who begged to know how he might make the young girl more comfortable. Horton's response was the same over a decade later.

"I will advise Mrs. Worthington in her care, but there is not much to do besides wait."

Just as before, the younger man took this advice poorly. Waiting was not something with which Darcy was accustomed. He could be patient when a task required focus; he was not flighty, nor eager for the next amusement like so many of his peers, but he loathed inaction. In times of stress especially, Darcy was the first in motion and found comfort in being of service. Being told to wait, to be powerless, while Elizabeth Bennet's life hung in a balance was excruciating.

Hoping to offer the man something to do, Dr. Horton asked if the family had yet been contacted.

"They reside in Hertfordshire. I will ask Mrs. Collins to send an express immediately. I waited before only to send word of your assessment"

"Ah, yes. I am sorry I have nothing more to offer."

There seemed to be nothing more to say, but Dr. Horton did not yet leave. Darcy indulged in his habit of staring out the window, only to find the kind of day which drove poets to wax eloquent on the merits of sunshine and spring blossoms. The world, it seemed, was perfectly indifferent to his troubles. As he contemplated the vexing cheerfulness of birdsong, Dr. Horton approached.

"How fortunate that the day is at least fine."

Darcy, with no attempt to cover his scowl, rather thought he would have preferred a tumultuous storm to better reflect his feelings.

"It is easier for patients to recover, I think, when there is pleasant weather."

Darcy at first dismissed this as a foolish, empty sentiment and turned himself farther away from the doctor, whose company he no longer desired. He meant to stay in this position until the other man left, but thought then of Elizabeth and his earlier resolution. Had he not decided he would try to improve himself? He had promised himself to act as if under her just scrutiny; to attempt to be more the man she would have him be. What would she think of this brooding, scowling man who turned away from a kindly older doctor?

He relaxed his jaw and tried to look at the scene before him as she might. He remembered how on one of their walks, just before he surprised her with his presence—an unpleasant surprise, he now realized—he watched her reach out to tickle low hanging branches with an impish grin, as if reveling in the confidence of the trees. He thought she would be refreshed by the current gentle sway of fresh green leaves and delight in the antics of small woodland creatures chasing each other. Perhaps Elizabeth, who rejoiced in brightness, would indeed be inspired to waking by the pull of a lovely day. As silly as it had seemed just a moment ago, Darcy found he rather appreciated this idea, and found himself passing the doctor a genuine, if thin, smile in return.

"Mr. Darcy, forgive me if it is impertinent to say so, but I would advise you tend to your own health as well. It can be difficult, I know, to care for oneself when those one cares about are injured or sick, but you could not do the lady any good if you were to fall ill yourself." The doctor then promised to return that evening, gave a good-natured nod, and dismissed himself to seek Mrs. Worthington. Darcy was startled at this. If he had made any small gains in one resolution, he must be failing miserably in his other—that of appearing indifferent to Miss Elizabeth and thus preserving her reputation. If Dr. Horton, a near stranger, had recognized his regard enough to make such a well-meaning, casual remark, he must be more transparent with his feelings than he had allowed himself to believe.

After that first meeting, Darcy resolved more strongly to act the part of a gentleman who happened upon an acquaintance in distress, nothing more. If anyone suspected that Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy were romantically involved, if whispers of impropriety surfaced between a lower gentlewoman and himself, she would certainly be the worse for it. Though any inappropriate conduct, including that horrible letter, meeting her alone in her home without permission, courting her without her father's (or her) consent, not to mention the small matter of a declaration of love, had all been entirely enacted by himself, Miss Bennet would be the one to face the scandal. Her lower ranking and sex conspired against her to produce a significantly more delicate reputation, one for which Mr. Darcy could not help but claim responsibility. She had been treated abominably by his own person, had suffered his advances, and was, at least in Darcy's view, in her present state because of his own selfishness. He could not continue to worsen her life by allowing his unguarded feelings to call her reputation into question.

Mr. Darcy donned the mask of the perfect, disinterested gentleman. It was fortunate that the mask was a well-worn favorite, otherwise he might not have been able to countenance the deceit in such a state of agitation. He wore it when he called at the parsonage. He shared the doctor's assessment, offered to pay for an express, and encouraged Mrs. Collins to come visit her friend as often as she wished, but would not stay for tea and was careful to show no particular distress or affection when relaying Elizabeth's condition. Though he need not hide from Mrs. Collins, her insufferable husband was another matter entirely. The parson, at least agreed to wait at least three days before attempting any more ceremonies. Neither did Darcy trust the distraught, terrified looking Miss Maria Lucas to refrain from romanticizing the situation. He needed to show to both families, and perhaps more importantly, the servants, that he was perfectly in control of himself and not at all attached or overly interested in the affairs of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

For no lesser motivation than the perceived need to protect Elizabeth could he have attended tea with his Aunt and cousins with such a degree of equanimity. Remembering that Lady Catherine would debase Miss Elizabeth publicly if she suspected any partiality from him, he excused his earlier outburst on the shock and excitement of the first morning's events. His apology considerably lessened the tension, but that woman seemed to put all her substantial powers of meddling to work in observing Darcy. She dropped a few masked insults towards the Bennet family in an effort to assess Darcy's reaction. Darcy had to remind himself again and again of his promises. Though he was sure Miss Elizabeth would use her charming wit to parry his Aunt's attacks, this was out of the question for him. He endeavored to be civil, and very nearly succeeded. He ensured that Mrs. Collins could visit her friend often, implied to his aunt that the parson and his wife might be invited over for dinner to better care for their charge, and disinterestedly claimed he was quite tired of speaking of the affair. He even went so far as to attempt to engage Anne in conversation, which, for two people who detested the effort of small talk, was as stilted and disagreeable as could be imagined.

He spent the following days and nights similarly engaged. He ate little, slept less, and spent his time in a constant state of agony. Any time he found his mind drifting towards worry over Elizabeth whilst in company, he would focus on the task of schooling his features. Richard would occasionally try to cajole him into speaking honestly or engage in some sport, but eventually thought it best to leave his cousin in his contemplation. He had some relief when Mrs. Collins would call to check on Elizabeth. She would inform Darcy of her friend's condition and offer comfort in the form of a knowing look. When alone though, Darcy's careful façade, as well as any semblance of normalcy, fell. When his mind was not more morbidly engaged, it focused on a critical review of every interaction he ever had with Elizabeth Bennet.

From the very beginning, before they had even been introduced, she must have felt the sting of his ungentlemanly remark. Had he not behaved like a brute during their first meeting? And had not Miss Elizabeth, even after being spurned by himself, behaved with perfect decorum? She had teased at his romantic notions that poetry was the food of love with such sense, wit, and joviality. He could not recall another moment in his life when his mind had been so instantly turned on an issue.

Darcy traced through every moment of their acquaintance, lingering on his proposal and rereading his abhorrent letter when he especially felt like torturing himself. These moments were deeply painful, but from them much was learned. On the second day, after reflecting on how arrogant Elizabeth must have found the first few passages in his letter, he decided to confess his involvement in Charles' separation from Jane Bennet by way of an express letter. He would not write of the lady's affection, which still he had never observed, but rather that he regretted his objections to the Bennet family and revealed his knowledge that Miss Bennet had been in London for months. This wrong, at least, he could amend. Elizabeth's state, as the doctor told him, was not so easily fixed.

"It has not yet been three full days. There is hope then yet."

"Yes, there is, Mr. Darcy but—"

"Her family should arrive tomorrow." He said this as if it concluded the matter, as if Jane's presence could possibly revive her sister.

"Mr. Darcy, we will wait and hope, but if she does not rise by tomorrow morning, she likely will not. You should prepare yourself for that reality." The doctor looked as though he was about to leave, thought better of it, and produced a vial from his bag. "A sleeping druaght. Take half the vial tonight. Whatever happens tomorrow, you will need rest to prepare for it." With that the doctor left and Darcy was quite alone.

Though Darcy retired early, he knew there would be no chance of sleep, with or without the draught and dismissed it. He alternated between begging to or cursing God and feverishly paced the floor of his room, deep in thought, until it was well past midnight. At some point, while reading the vile letter for the umpteenth time, he realized that his room was too confining for his restless muscles, and he decided to leave it. He lit a new candle, donned his dressing gown, and, just as he was about to depart, took a small swig of the draught to calm his nerves.

Darcy wandered first to the library, where he remembered "Eliza the great lover of books" as Miss Bingley had called her during her stay at Netherfield. He then contemplated taking a walk outside and made his way to the grand entrance of the house, but before he reached the door he realized he could not face the paths in which she used to delight. He could not face these reminders of her, but he desperately needed to be near her. She was the only occupant in that wing of the house, and it felt strange entering the hallway where she was. Certainly, if he was caught then all his careful deception would have been for naught, but he rationalized that the people of the house were fast asleep in other, far away rooms. If someone did awake, surely, he would hear them and leave before he was discovered there, and, though he pushed the thought away as soon as it entered his mind, if she did not awake, he could not care where he was found or what happened to him.

He paced in front of her door for a while, quietly begging her to stay, pleading with God to keep her here under any conditions. When he found his legs exhausted, he sat against the wall facing her door and pulled out the letter again. Somewhere during the enumeration of the "cases of repugnance" in the Bennet family, he fell into a fitful sleep.

AN: Thank you again to all of those who have read, reviewed, and are sticking with this story! The next chapter has been the one I have been most looking forward to since day 1 of this story, and should therefore be up very soon.

To answer some comments from the previous chapter, Mr. Collins was not trying to kill Lizzy, though that sounds like an interesting premise for another fic. He was attempting to perform an Anglican ritual of prayer usually used on someone who was in the act of dying or about to be executed. It wasn't especially common and certainly not mandatory in the Regency era, and would have been very ridiculous given the situation.

Thank you also to the person who noticed that I would have killed Mr. Darcy with my doseage of laudanum in a previous version. it has been amended. :)


	7. Alive and Awake

Elizabeth Bennet had never experienced trouble rising from bed. As full of life, chaos, and silliness as Longbourn was, moments of peace were scarce during waking hours. Though Elizabeth found joy in the activity of the house and, like her father, delighted in the ridiculous, she also appreciated moments of reflection. Unlike her father, however, she did not have the benefit of a library door to retreat behind. And so, every morning, Elizabeth was the first Bennet to rise and would delight in solitary rambles or an intriguing book for an hour or so before her family woke.

She usually rose early and lightly, refreshed and eager for her morning reverie, and so this pressing weight on her chest, the immense heaviness of her eyelids and sore, stiffness of her body was wholly new to her. She wondered for how long she had been struggling, ineffectually, to open her eyes, or why her very thoughts felt so labored. She felt oddly like she had when she was around eight years old and Thomas Lucas had said girls could not swim. Naturally, she had dived fully clothed to the bottom of a nearby lake to prove him wrong. As it happened, Elizabeth could _not_ swim and found herself weighed down by her heavy skirts, confused about which way was up, kicking desperately against the pressure of the water to try and stop the burning in her lungs. Just as then, she fought her way to the surface and when she finally broke through, gasped as if she had never tasted air before.

Her throat was sore. It felt scratchy, dry, and raw as her breath surged through it. She had an unfamiliar tasting salve on her lips. Her eyes, while open, saw nothing but darkness. She felt as if the rest of her body was still being dragged downwards below the surface of whatever nightmarish state she had been in. She had no notion of where she was or how she had gotten there and found her usually bright memory too addled to be of assistance. She willed herself to move her toes and they complied, her legs and fingers following behind. Gingerly, she tried to raise herself up, but the moment she pressed weight onto her wrists and lifted her head she was startled by a sharp pain and collapsed. Frightened, she lifted her hands to inspect them and felt bandaging around one wrist, hidden under a too-long night dress sleeve. She did not remember injuring herself at all, and desperately felt around her body for other sources of pain. Her chest was very sore and felt bruised in certain spots, and even more strangely, it was . . . smaller. Could it be her imagination or were her ribs more pronounced than usual? Her further inspection revealed a small bandage around her upper arm, another on her knee, and several layers of bandages wrapped around the base of her skull. Pressing on the bandage lightly produced a dull pain. With trepidation, Elizabeth slipped one finger under the cloth and felt for the wound. It was painful to touch, but was not wet, and did not seem deep. How strange that it already had the thin crust of a scab.

Satisfied that her injuries, though troublesome, did not seem incapacitating, Elizabeth tried again to raise herself to a sitting position, this time using only her strong arm. Immediately her head swam, and dizzy nausea rolled through her. She gripped the bed for stability and breathed deeply until she felt more stable. As she sat there, her eyes adjusting to the dark, she noticed a small glow of light from what appeared to be the bottom of a door. Too quickly, she threw off the bed clothes, swung her legs around the bed, and made to rise, eager to find the source of the light and hopefully find some answer to her many questions. She nearly collapsed upon standing but found the handle of a chair back first to stabilize her. Her head still swam, and her faithful legs, which easily carried her over three miles in the mud, felt for some reason as if they weren't meant to support a human. Exceedingly frustrated and confused, she released a mild oath and sigh of exasperation and was then startled by the strange rasp of her voice. _What had happened to her? Where was she? How had she come here?_ She would not find her answers leaning on a chair in a foreign, dark room and so she stumbled along, clutching at chair backs and dressers for support until she reached the wall with the light and felt for the cool metal of a door knob.

Fitzwilliam Darcy rarely experienced trouble rising from bed, but he also rarely took sleeping draughts. As it was, he was roused into an almost waking state by the muffled sounds of furniture scraping on wood and some strange mumbling. It took him a moment to remember where he was, the draught made his thoughts hazy and body heavy. As he fought through the fog to understand his surroundings, his hand made contact with a piece of paper, a letter, _the_ letter, and consciousness dawned. It was the middle of night and he was sleeping _on the floor_ across from Miss Elizabeth Bennet's room with a half-burned candle and a scandalous letter, and _someone was coming_. Before he could even scramble to his feet or collect the sheets of paper, he heard the turn of a knob, and the door across from him opened to reveal Elizabeth Bennet herself.

Of all the things Elizabeth might have expected to find on the other side of the door, a man slumped against the wall was not among them. That the man should be Mr. Darcy was altogether too much. She was dizzy again and leaned heavily on the doorway for support. He locked eyes with her and memories of an awful proposal and a heartbroken Jane came flooding back, alongside feelings of frustration, anger, humiliation, and overwhelming dislike. _Why was he here? Where was here? What was happening?_ They were both paralyzed for a moment, staring at each other uncomprehendingly, and then Mr. Darcy was on his feet.

"Elizabeth. You are alive . . . and awake." He whispered this as if it was a prayer, as if he could not believe it, and with such a look of hope and relief on his face that Elizabeth wondered if this could really be Mr. Darcy. He walked towards her in a trance-like state with his hand slightly outstretched as if to touch her, and she found her courage. Though her head was swimming dangerously, she let go of her grip on the door frame and raised herself to her full height with the aim of being as in control of herself as possible.

"Mr. Darcy, I have no comprehension of what is going on, least of all why you think it appropriate to address me so informally." Though she kept her voice to a whisper, she invoked as much power as she could into this little speech, which only wore her out and did not at all have the desired effect. Instead of being discouraged, Mr. Darcy smiled and bowed.

"Pardon me, Miss Bennet. But you are alive and awake." He kept a respectable distance away and had dropped his hands, but was close enough that Elizabeth could see a genuine wash of joy and relief over his features.

If a smiling Mr. Darcy was not disconcerting enough, his repeated words served to make Elizabeth troubled. The room was now spinning and she struggled to keep her balance without allowing Mr. Darcy to see her weakness.

"Mr. Darcy, I am clearly both alive and awake. Why is this surprising information?" whether it was the question itself or the note of fear in her voice, something snapped Darcy into action.

"Of course, Miss Bennet, this will all be confusing for you, and my presence must be adding to your disturbance. Please allow me to leave and you can return to your room to ring the bell. Someone will check in on your health and explain everything." He bowed his departure and made to pick up his candle and three pieces of letter paper.

"The letter." She moved forward too quickly towards the paper, head heavy and light at the same time, while flashes of memory surged in. "I remember . . . that letter and then . . ." and then her world went black.

When Elizabeth next opened her eyes she was lying on her back. Her feet were propped up on something soft and her forehead was cool and damp. She felt nauseous and excessively confused. _Where was she? What had happened?_

"You are awake."

Right. Mr. Darcy was here, wherever _here_ was, kneeling by her head. Based on how difficult it had been to stand, she surmised that she had passed out.

"Yes, I believe we have determined that. I am also alive, in case you were interested." Elizabeth's usually light teasing took a more caustic tone given the frustrating circumstances, but Mr. Darcy seemed to take no notice.

"I am greatly interested, I thank you." He was too genuine, too attentive, and that smile again! It was so very warm and un-Darcy-like, tinged now with real concern. "How do you feel?" Elizabeth thought it best to lighten the situation.

"I feel disenchanted, Mr. Darcy."

"How so?"

"A Mr. Walpole and a Mrs. Radcliffe have led me to believe that fainting is a highly desirable thing to do, and now I am to discover that it is only rather nauseating. So you see, all hopes of gothic adventuring are irrevocably ruined for me."

"How unfortunate that you should miss the chance of being kidnapped and imprisoned in some castle."

"Oh, I would much rather be abducted and dragged across Naples, the scenery would be far superior."

"Would you not grow tired of all the monks with similar sounding names? Schedoni and Spalatro and the like?"

"Perhaps, but I am sure the lovely churches and countryside would more than make up for the confusion." Darcy smiled at this repartee and Elizabeth was forced to look away. How had her attempt at levity left her feeling more vulnerable? And how did Mr. Darcy know characters from _The Italian_? For what seemed like the hundredth time tonight she asked herself _what was happening?_ Mr. Darcy, seeming to sense her discomfort, pulled himself to the present.

"You said you felt nauseated, if you move the cloth on your head to your neck it should offer some relief."

She did, and to her surprise the cool wetness did alleviate her discomfort. At this discovery, she let out a small, desperate, laugh and covered her face in her hands.

"Is something amusing to you, Miss Bennet?"

"Yes indeed. In fact, I cannot decide which is more amusing: that the great Master of Pemberly reads Gothic novels or that he is currently acting as my nursemaid. Perhaps you can offer your opinion." Though her tone was less than gracious towards the aforesaid Master of Pemberly, he replied kindly.

"I am wholly unqualified to judge your amusements, Miss Bennet. But I may offer some explanation. I have read novels by Mrs. Radcliffe because my sister desired to read them and I wanted to ensure their appropriateness."

"And your assessment? Were the Mysteries of Udolpho and The Romance of the Forest deemed suitable reading for an accomplished young lady like Miss Darcy?"

"Certainly not. But as they were engaging and seemed harmless, I could hardly refuse Georgiana the entertainment. Perhaps I should have been more cautious of the influence of silly romantic stories." He seemed to trail off in a dark thought for a moment before he continued. "You once remarked that we could never have read the same books, nor have the same opinions on them if we had, were you correct in your assessment?"

To say that Elizabeth was by this point uncomfortable would be a severe understatement. Did she not dislike this man above all others? How were they still pretending that the proposal had not happened? Had he not humiliated her pride and had she not insulted him in an abominable manner? And yet she was lying on the floor of a hallway, injured, confused, and they were having a conversation about novels as if it were a completely normal thing to do. And stranger still, they seemed to agree. She had once teased that Lydia and Kitty be barred from reading Mrs. Radcliffe because they took the books too much to heart, and while she herself had found them excessively diverting, she did not think Mr. Darcy's characterization of "silly romantic stories" was very far from the truth. This was all too bizarre and Elizabeth felt more exposed, as well as weak, but her courage would not fail her.

"I am afraid I do not yet have enough evidence to be proven either correct or incorrect in my previous observation. I can say for certain, however, that you are deflecting from the original question. Please enlighten me as to where you learned your skills of nursing."

"My late mother was sickly in her final years of life. Before she was permanently confined to her rooms, she had to be escorted everywhere in case she fell faint. I was often her escort. The doctor taught my father and I that when she did lose consciousness we were to elevate her feet, place damp cloth on her head and neck, and not move her until she was ready to stand."

Somehow Elizabeth had never considered that Mr. Darcy could be any younger than he currently was, and envisioning him as a man-child caring for his mother made her feel an uncomfortable mixture of sadness, empathy, and guilt. It was so much harder to take comfort in one's dislike of a person if said person had a younger, attentive self which nursed his dying mother.

Breaking both of them out of their reveries, Mr. Darcy cleared his throat and continued. "So you see, my medical knowledge is very limited and only happened to apply in this situation."

Elizabeth had the dismay of realizing then that Mr. Darcy must have placed the cloth to begin with, that he caught her when she fainted, had lifted her feet onto a pillow, and had brought her to her present state of laying on her back, in a nightdress, on what she assumed was the padded floor of this unknown hallway. If, as she teased, she was a swooning gothic heroine, then Mr. Darcy had been the hero. The thought repelled and mortified her. Instinctively, she made to rise as a means to escape from this embarrassing situation, but did not get far before she was reminded of her injured wrist by a sharp, searing pain.

Mr. Darcy, all concern, only added to her humiliation by gently easing her back to the ground and asking if she was hurt.

"It is only my wrist." _And head, and chest, and legs, and pride._

"Yes, Dr. Horton said that it was sprained on impact but should heal well." Darcy looked rather concerned. "He said you had bruises and cuts as well but that your head was the only worrisome injury."

"Mr. Darcy, as you seem to know more about my condition than I do perhaps you can tell me what has happened?" It vexed Elizabeth that she was beholden to Mr. Darcy for information about herself, that _he_ should be the one to take care of her now, that he should thwart her efforts to dislike him with his memories, and that she should feel so powerless. Her voice reflected her extreme frustration.

Mr. Darcy's visage changed immediately from concern to acute pain and Elizabeth instantly regretted her tone. She slowly pushed herself up on her left arm and his hands were there to help her to a sitting position. He offered the pillow from her feet for her back and in a moment Elizabeth was almost comfortably positioned against the wall. Feeling far more equal to conversation from her present position, she tried again in a more civil tone.

"I remember meeting you and receiving your letter." Now anger flashed across his features. So he had not forgotten about the proposal and was still bitter with her! She had a moment of small satisfaction. Too many of Mr. Darcy's emotions tonight had confused and incapacitated her, but she could address his anger with confidence. Emboldened, she continued.

"I remember reading about your hand in the affairs of my sister and Mr. Bingley." She challenged him, and to her relief the anger seemed more apparent on his features. How peculiar that she felt more at ease with such an emotion, but in a night when everything was strange, that anger offered her the comfort of a familiar adversary. "I was prevented from reading about your other justifications for interference, but I do not remember the cause of interruption. Perhaps you can enlighten me." To Elizabeth's disappointment, the anger she had counted on was overcome by pain again on his features, and something else, some emotion she could not identify.

"You seemed to have strayed from the main path-"

"Yes, I believe I was captivated by your writing." She tried to steer him back to anger but there was that other emotion again, stronger now, could that be _shame_ on Mr. Darcy?

"I expect you were disturbed enough by that letter that you did notice where you were going." It _was_ shame! _And_ anger, and frustration and-who could have guessed that the stoic Mr. Darcy had the capacity for so many warring feelings. But then his pain was back, and it was oppressive enough that it ended Elizabeth's exploration of the man's sentiments.

"You fell off of a rocky ledge, hit your head on the bottom, and fell unconscious. You were brought here to Rosings and have remained, unmoving, for nearly three days. I did not- that is, no one knew if you would ever wake up."

"Oh. I have been asleep for three days." This information was sufficiently disturbing to Elizabeth.

" _Nearly_ three days. Dr. Horton said that you likely could not survive beyond that point without water."

Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth seemed to have the realization about the latter's needs at the same time. Until this point, Elizabeth had felt the impact of dehydration but had been so confused and eager to understand that she had not identified her incredible thirst.

"You must be famished, you need food and water." Mr. Darcy rose and looked as if he would leave, and Elizabeth was struck by the realization that they were alone, in a hallway in Rosings, in what must be the middle of the night. It would be compromising to say the least if they were found there.

"Mr. Darcy, please do not wake the house. I am sure I can manage until the morning."

He shot her a quizzical look and went into the room she had quitted not an hour ago. He returned with a candle and a blanket, which he handed her. She had not realized before that she was cold and was grateful for both the layer of modesty and warmth.

"Miss Bennet, I have been travelling to Rosings since my youth, I know where the kitchens are." He lit the extra candle, which he left with her and made to depart. As he stepped away, Elizabeth's gaze fell on the pieces of paper on the ground.

"Mr. Darcy!" He turned.

"Miss Bennet?"

"Is that the letter you gave me?"

"Unfortunately, yes." The warring emotions were back, and Mr. Darcy looked much more like the man she could detest in comfort.

"May I have it back?" If it was not for the particular way he clenched his jaw Elizabeth might have thought he had not heard her.

"Mr. Darcy? It was given to me, was it not?"

"Yes. It is yours." He bent to retrieve the pages but did not pass them over. "It is only that when I wrote this letter I believed myself perfectly calm and cool; but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit. I heartily regret writing it and the harm it has caused you." Suddenly, all of Mr. Darcy's troublesome emotions and strange actions became more clear. He was not suddenly more kind, merely transformed by misplaced guilt.

"I hardly think your letter can be blamed for my own lack of caution."

"Miss Bennet, if I had not written that letter you would never-you could have-I thought you were-" He was breathing heavily now, clearly distressed, and Elizabeth noticed for the first time how haggard this man looked. There were dark circles under his eyes, his face was more gaunt, his hair more tousled, and he contrasted so sharply with his usually meticulous person that they may well have been different people. The latter she could blame for anything, but the former she could not help but pity.

"Mr. Darcy, regardless of my opinions of the contents of that letter, neither it nor yourself are in any way responsible for my injury. I implore you to excuse yourself of any blame on that account, I fell entirely because of my own carelessness."He did not seem to agree and looked intent on berating himself.

"In any case, I am grateful that I did survive the fall. I am sure my curiosity about the letter's contents would have made me a very ill-tempered spirit." With that, Elizabeth expectantly held out her hand as Mr. Darcy balked and retreated further into tormenting himself. Apparently teasing about her own death was not an effective tactic on this man. He stiffly passed over the pages and departed, leaving Elizabeth alone with the letter.

 **AN: Thank you again to those who have continued to read, review, follow, and favorite!**


	8. Ask Me Anything

**AN: I apologize for the extreme delay. Thank you so much to those who continue to read and review, your thoughtful comments encourage me to keep going. The next chapter is mostly written and should be posted very soon!**

Elizabeth waited just until Mr. Darcy was out of sight before turning to the pages in front of her. She tried to read, and yet something was wrong. This was not the letter at all! There were no coherent words, merely blurry, confusing scribbles. She held the candle closer to the page, yet characters were still indistinguishable. She flipped over each page, eager for comprehension but finding none. On one there was more open space around the black wavy lines, and with considerable effort, she deciphered the neat, looping strokes of a "G". Her head hurt and it concerned her that she was unable to read. She pushed through enough to make out what she thought might be a "God bless you." By this time her vision was blurred, she felt as she had when she was a child and would try to read during carriage rides on a hot day. Disoriented. Frustrated. Nauseous.

A panic of helplessness, of acute betrayal by her own eyes and head and body momentarily overwhelmed Elizabeth and she allowed the flood of emotions from the past hour or so to run through her. There were too many to name, more even than battled over Mr. Darcy's features. Confusion, frustration, disbelief, shock, exhaustion, and embarrassment among them. She was too parched even for the relief of tears, and her sides ached as a result of her dry sobs.

After allowing a moment of indulgence, she worked to compose her mind again with slow, deliberate breaths and separate what she did and did not know. She knew Mr. Darcy had proposed to her, horribly. She knew she had rejected him in an even more awful manner. Her chest tightened as a recollection of some of the choice words she had used juxtaposed with images of him tonight. A caring nursemaid who went to the kitchens in the dark to get her food. _A selfish disdain for the feelings of others._ But this delved too far into the realm of confusion and she steered herself back towards what she understood for certain.

She had woken up, three days ago, and went for a walk. Mr. Darcy gave her this indecipherable, vexing, vexing letter. She had read about how he separated Bingley from Jane and seemed proud of himself for doing so. Recollecting, a flush of anger surged and guilt over her own harsh words was erased. Did Mr. Darcy, who said he regretted writing the letter, regret his actions too? The haughtiness of his tone? Or merely the result of the words being written, which led to her own injury?

Elizabeth struggled to remember where she wandered, what she was doing, how she had been injured, but only remembered how she felt about the letter she was reading. She remembered walking a good distance, and rather quickly, and then nothing. According to Mr. Darcy she had fallen, been knocked unconscious and brought here to Rosings where she laid for days until- but this train of thought was stalled while Elizabeth wondered _how exactly_ she had been brought here. As soon as she thought the question for herself she feared she knew the answer and her humiliation deepened. _He_ knew she had wandered off when she read the letter. _He_ knew she had hit a rock. _He_ had in his possession tonight the letter she was holding when she fell. The nausea rolled through her again. Her heart pounded erratically at her chest. She was upset when she thought Mr. Darcy had only caught her after she fainted. To think that the man who she detested above all others, who she so viciously rejected, could have saved her life! It was unbearable.

She tried to convince herself that she was wrong. Mr. Darcy likely turned and went straight back to Rosings after handing off the letter. She had ambled for several minutes in an aimless direction before she fell. Someone else must have found her and brought a horse or cart to drag her back here. A footman, maybe, or groundskeeper. Besides, she must have been a far ways off from the house, even if Mr. Darcy had found her, how would he have gotten her back? It would be ridiculous for him to have carried her so far alone. She grew more agitated at the thought.

She tried to lessen her distraction by breathing deeply again and trying to read, this time she began with what she assumed was the signature. Though the "F" and "D" came to her after a moment's struggle, she was left to guess the letters in between. There was too much scribble for the given name to be short. Not Franklin or Fabian, perhaps Frederick, but it did not seem right. It was the squiggle below the rest of the text, the "z" which let her to the conclusion that he had his cousin's surname for a given name. "Fitzwilliam Darcy". Somehow the name fit both the arrogant man she had come to dislike and the concerned person she met outside the bedroom door.

Come to think of it, _why was_ Mr. Darcy asleep on the floor in the hallway outside her room? He must have been sent past this hallway on some mission and when passing her chamber felt guilty, stopped to peruse the letter again, and . . . fell asleep? It seemed unlikely but she could not otherwise account for his presence, there was no reason for him to be there save guilt and the kind of masochistic self-beratement she had seen him display tonight. Yes, guilt was what brought him here.

Though it was hard to stray far from thinking of him, Elizabeth resolved to focus on something, anything other than Mr. Darcy. She thought of Charlotte and hoped she was holding up well. She wondered if a letter had been sent to her father, and felt a wrench of guilt for any concern he and her family might be facing over her well being. She took comfort, though, in her father's negligent correspondence. There was reasonable hope that a letter from Charlotte or Mr. Collins might find itself in the stack of unopened envelopes on her father's desk, and that before he read such unhappy news of her injury, he might also receive word of her well-being. Her stomach knotted at the thought of Jane being unnecessarily in distress, for surely Charlotte would send word to London, and then Elizabeth's resolve was destroyed. Jane in distress. Mr. Darcy had caused Jane to be in distress. The most perfect creature in the world was suffering over a broken heart because of the self-important, despicable meddling of Mr. _Fitzwilliam_ Darcy.

The return of her anger inspired Elizabeth to try again at reading the letter, to find more cause to detest this man and rid herself of annoying feelings like gratitude, guilt, and sympathy; but it was to no avail. A few moments of concentrated staring produced nothing more than a bitter headache and a renewed sense of helplessness. Elizabeth hung her head between her knees and held the still damp cloth to the back of her neck, rocking slightly to try and soothe both her headache and frustration. It was in this position that Mr. Darcy found her.

He rushed forward and knelt before her, setting the loaded tray on the floor.

"Miss Elizabeth, are you alright? Are you in pain? Is there anything I can do?"

Elizabeth lifted her head and decided, upon seeing the utter concern Mr. Darcy wore, that she could not now be unkind to this person, and strove for a measured, civil tone.

"I am as well as may be expected. Thank you."

"I am glad to hear it. Please, eat, drink, you must be famished."

Elizabeth took this invitation to gulp down the proffered glass of water, paying no heed to manners. Mr. Darcy must have anticipated her thirst because he brought along a pitcher, and as soon as she had finished her first glass he was pouring her a second.

"Would you like tea?" He looked expectantly at Elizabeth and she fully examined the tray before her. There was indeed tea, which meant Mr. Darcy must have made a fire in the kitchen (small wonder that no servants were awake). There was also a stack of sandwiches, fruits, tea cookies, bread and preserves-enough food for a family picnic-with only one set of plate and silverware.

"Yes, thank you. Mr. Darcy. This is quite the feast you have prepared. Should we add 'cook' to the list of surprising roles you've played tonight?"

"I think 'kitchen maid' is a more accurate title for one who merely prepares sandwiches and fruit."

Though this comment brought the creep of a smile to both faces, Mr. Darcy was expectant, anxious even, as he poured tea. Without prompting he added two sugars, exactly as Elizabeth always did, and passed over the cup. Their fingers did not touch. There was careful avoidance by each party, and yet the innocent gesture struck Elizabeth as horribly intimate. For the first time that evening she fully realized how inappropriate the situation, and her own behavior in it, might be.

She was sitting on the floor in bed clothes in the middle of the night with a man. A man who had likely saved her life, ruined Jane's, and somehow knew how she took her tea. She thought she should feel upset at the situation: indignant, perhaps, at the lack of propriety; fearful or unsafe for being so very alone with Mr. Darcy, especially when she was weak and disoriented, but she did not. A proper gentlewoman would never eat sandwiches on the floor, would have demanded that Mr. Darcy leave at once, but upon reflection Elizabeth found that her curiosity overwhelmed any other concerns. Did this mean that she had loose morals? She remembered the words which had so angered her a few days earlier. ' _That total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly, betrayed . . .'_ was this not the most egregious breach of decency any member of her family had displayed? Yet as much as she could abstractly _think_ that her predicament was wrong, she _felt_ no shame.

She rationalized that if this _was_ wrong, the gentleman across from her was at least equally to blame. Yet, Mr. Darcy had offered to leave as soon as she had stumbled upon him. He stayed to take care of her only because she could not stand. He perhaps should not have gone to the kitchens and stayed with her to eat, but it was kindly meant and he could not very well leave her now with a tray of food for servants to wonder at in the morning. Elizabeth decided that there was nothing improper except the appearance of impropriety, which no one save themselves would witness. Besides, since this may be the only chance she had to get the answers she needed, she must take it.

"Thank you."

"Please eat, Miss Elizabeth."

"I am not in the habit of such modern habits as hallway picnics, Mr. Darcy, so perhaps this is my ignorant country manner interfering, but I think it would be rude for me to eat alone."

He smiled, but it did not meet his eyes, which were still furrowed in worry. "I confess myself also ignorant of fashionable manners, and defer to your judgment, but I expect even the most experienced hallway picnic-er would permit an exception for you."

"Please, Mr. Darcy, you have prepared a feast. I could not possibly eat this much in a week, let alone a night, and in truth you look like you could use some food as well." She had meant that last bit as a challenge, a slight jab at his appearance, but it somehow came out with more concern than she intended.

"I cannot deny it." He conceded, still smiling a slight, grim smile, then took a napkin from the tray, a sandwich, and proceeded to eat carefully. Elizabeth followed suit.

For a while, no speech was necessary as each slowly, quietly addressed their need for food. Elizabeth used the silence to organize her thoughts and remind herself of the questions she needed answering. Mr. Darcy spent the time thinking that his heart was beating loud and fast enough to be heard. He wondered what she could be thinking, of him? Of the letter? She had made no mention of it but certainly she had some opinions, and she was not one to hide them. He wondered too how the strong, fierce Miss Elizabeth Bennet could now struggle with the weight of a water pitcher, but still refuse assistance with only a sharp look directed his way. He wondered at how after not eating for days she took such impossibly small bites, how she twitched but concealed a grimace every time she moved her right wrist, how her gaze, which focused mostly on her food, occasionally would flick up to match his own. He wondered how he ever thought he could convince himself he was not in love with this woman. So occupied were his wonderings that her speech caught him off guard.

"Mr. Darcy, I am fairly confused about what happened to me, there are things I do not remember, and I would like to ask you some questions to better understand my situation."

"Of course. Ask me anything."

"How did I get here?"

Mr. Darcy felt a prickle of alarm. He had already explained this to her tonight. Did her head injury hurt her memory? Her beautiful mind?

"Miss Elizabeth, do you remember, we spoke of this not an hour ago . . . You were reading the letter I gave you in the park, you fell and hit your head, and you were brought here, to Rosings. Do you remember any of this?"

What he said gently out of concern, she interpreted as a patronizing insult to her intelligence. This slight, combined with her anxiety over the answer to her question, had her in a fitful state of agitation. "Yes, Mr. Darcy, I remember that vague explanation. I would like to know how, specifically, I came to be here."

"I took you here."

No. Though really she knew this already, hearing it confirmed made her feel newly humiliated and her agitation worsened.

"You _took_ me?"

"I was still in the park when I heard you scream. I found you unconscious and carried you here to Rosings."

Mr. Darcy had saved her life. He had sought her out and carried her across a park to safety. He also had not advertised this bit of information, and if she had not probed may not have revealed his heroics at all. Gratitude. That is what she should express to him. Appreciation, kindness, and gratitude for someone who had done so much for her.

Yet, for some reason, the words which came out of her were as far from appropriate sentiment as they could be. "You carried me across a park in broad daylight where anyone could see? Did you not think for a moment how indecent that would be?" She had no idea where this extreme care for propriety came from when it had been so absent earlier. Neither, it seemed, did Mr. Darcy, who found anger with someone other than himself for the first time that night.

"Indecent? Miss Elizabeth, forgive me, but this is absurd -"

"Of course a man would not understand the importance of a lady's reputation, of course it would be 'absurd'-"

"Miss Elizabeth, your penchant for willfully misunderstanding me is astonishing. You take my words entirely out of context-"

"Mr. Darcy, it is you who misunderstands how entirely inappropriate your actions were."

"Elizabeth you were dying!" Though he managed to maintain his volume to just above a whisper, the fierceness of his voice, and the way it broke just slightly on the last word stopped Elizabeth short.

"When I found you at the bottom of that cliff, I thought you were already-" Mr. Darcy was no longer in the hallway, he was back in his nightmare, and he took Elizabeth with him. "That is, you were not- you were bent so strangely, unnaturally, you looked too pale, and small, and there was blood everywhere, _everywhere_. I was terrified . . . You had a massive head injury and hardly a pulse . . . So no, during the worst moment of my life I did not think anything of propriety, only of the chance that maybe, if I could only staunch the bleeding, or if I ran fast enough, you might live." Elizabeth sat aghast, startled by the depth of feeling he shared and ready to apologize for her outburst, ready to thank Mr. Darcy for saving her life, for thinking only of her safety. But Mr. Darcy: hurt, confused, exhausted, and passionate as he was at this moment, did not give her the chance.

"What would you have had me do? Leave you lying in your own blood to preserve your decency? Watch you die for the sake of some blasted, completely insane sense of decorum? Forgive me if I was never taught how to behave as a _gentleman_ when dealing with matters of life and death, if I valued your life over your precious reputation."

"Yes, Mr. Darcy, my reputation _is_ precious to me, though I can see it is of no importance to you.-"

"Elizabeth, you are being incorrigible, you know that is not at all-"

"Furthermore, _Mr._ Darcy, there are a number of things I would have had you do before dragging me across Rosings park alone in the early morning, the most obvious being to call for help. Surely the time you spent finding another person would more than have been recuperated in the time you could save having two people carry me instead of one. Perhaps you could have found a horse or even a wheelbarrow to assist in your process-"

"A _wheelbarrow_?! You talk as if the area was teeming with people willing to help if only I had just called out, yet you walk that part of the park every decent morning, you know better than anyone how deserted it is."

"Regardless of how many people were physically near you, you could have gone first to the house-"

"You sound like my Aunt Catherine!"

"I have no idea what you are talking about and I implore you to-"

"I implore _you_ to put aside your prejudice against me for a moment and recognize that-"

"My prejudice against you? What does that have to do with this?"

"Everything! I refuse to believe that a woman of your intelligence and sense would really rather chance death than risk being seen, unconscious and profusely bleeding, I might add, in the arms of a man. I am led to think your irrational objection-"

" _Irrational_? How dare-"

"Yes, indeed! Your _irrational_ objection, to my completely necessary actions exists only because the man in question was me. If some other gentleman had happened upon you and saved your life perhaps he could expect a mere thanks rather than an interrogation, but it is no matter. As unfortunate as my involvement might seem for you, it could not be helped and I will not apologize for anything I did which led to your being alive."

The faces and necks of each were red with emotion. Defensive anger and indignation were dominant on each of their features, but a closer look would have shown that Mr. Darcy's did not mask his pain or regret for speaking too harshly; neither did Elizabeth's conceal her guilt, frustration, or humiliation at the entire affair.

Darcy had spent the last few days trying to be more of a man who would be deserving of Elizabeth, and now that she was finally awake, now that he was given the chance to show the change in himself, he fought bitterly with her. The steely challenge in her eyes spoke plainly her feelings on his behavior, and yet he was still filled with justified anger. There was no accounting for it, but he never could control his feelings where she was concerned. How could she dismiss the importance of her own safety, her life even, which had recently become the most important part of his own? He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"Miss Elizabeth . . ." he started gently, trying to make amends but still make her understand. "If it had been someone you loved, your sister Miss Jane, perhaps, dying at the bottom of a cliff, and I had found her instead, can you really tell me you would rather I had left her bleeding out in the park to try and find help first, even if that meant spending time that could have been spent getting her to safety?"

Elizabeth started at the word 'loved,' but then remained stock still, eyes wide. She remained silent for a full minute after Mr. Darcy had spoken, allowing herself to picture her beautiful Jane surrounded by blood, dying, while help ran away on some inflated sense of principle. Tears had filled her eyes by the time she was able to respond.

"No." It was almost too quiet to be heard, but Mr. Darcy understood. "I would never have forgiven anyone for leaving if they could have helped her."

They were quiet for another moment, where in each felt remorseful for their argument. Elizabeth swiped her hand under her eyes and with a shaky breath broke the silence.

"Mr. Darcy please forgive my behavior earlier. It was indeed _irrational_ of me to react the way-"

"I should not have called you that, nor should I have said-"

"You were right to say it. You were right to be angry. Of course your actions were justified, they saved my life." Her traitorous voice hitched and the tears of mollified frustration threatened to spill.

"Miss Elizabeth? Are you alright? Justified or not, I never should have spoken to you in that way, I am-"

"Please don't trouble yourself, Mr. Darcy, I am only deeply mortified. It should soon pass." She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths to calm herself, but to her surprise Mr. Darcy laughed.

"Miss Elizabeth, of the two of us, I claim the _far_ greater cause for humiliation in our interactions."

To her greater surprise, she laughed through her own tears. "Perhaps you do." Encouraged by the slight upturn of her lips, Mr. Darcy pressed further.

"Perhaps? Miss Elizabeth, I have set the bar so high that you could never hope to achieve half of my deserved chagrin."

How curious that moments ago they were furious with each other and now they were laughing like old friends?

"You may have a point, Mr. Darcy; _I_ would never have ignored a ballroom full of ladies."

"It was not _you_ who intruded on _my_ solitary walks so many times."

"It is not as if _I_ insulted _your_ entire family."

"No, nor did you make rude, _blasphemously_ untrue, remarks about me in a public assembly." Though surprised he chose to bring this up, surprised he knew she had overheard him that night, and surprised by the complement contained in this subtle apology, she did not miss a beat in her retort.

"None that you were able to overhear, that is." Her arch look set Mr. Darcy into a new bout of quiet laughs.

Maybe they were verging into dangerous territory, but it was such a relief to tease about their dreadful history. Elizabeth felt herself relax into this unlikely companionship. After a moment, fully recovered from her previous embarrassment, Elizabeth spoke.

"Mr. Darcy, thank you. I do not-" Darcy knew she was grateful for more than his making her laugh, and for some reason felt uneasy about being thanked for his rescue efforts. They would not have been needed if not for his letter.

"Miss Elizabeth I-"

"Mr. Darcy, please do not interrupt. I am trying to be kind to you." She laughed, exasperated. "You make it difficult." His responding smile was so genuine and full of warmth it disarmed her for a moment.

"As I was saying . . . Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I think we can safely add 'courageous rescuer' to your growing list of occupations. That must have been horrible to endure. I am so sorry to have caused you such trouble, and am very grateful for your actions."

"I have never been more afraid in my life than I was when I found you, so I think 'courageous' may be an exaggeration. And while it _was_ horrible, you must know, Miss Elizabeth, that I would do anything to be of service to you."


	9. It Was A Brief Moment

They sat in companionable silence for a moment until the intensity of Mr. Darcy's gaze pressed Elizabeth to speak.

"I have another question."

"Ask away."

"Before, when you were saying how irrational and absurd I was-" Though Elizabeth said this with more than a pinch of impishness, Mr. Darcy was startled into serious apology.

"I should not have-"

"Mr. Darcy, please, hush." Though Elizabeth's tone chastised, her smirk gave her away and Darcy was put at ease for a moment.

"You said I reminded you of Lady Catherine. What did you mean by that?"

It was a brief moment. Darcy's posture and jaw tensed as he remembered his confrontation with his aunt.

"Mr. Darcy . . . you said I could ask you anything, but I see I have troubled you. It was not my intention."

They sat in a far less companionable silence while Darcy decided exactly how much viciousness to share.

"When my aunt heard of your injury and my involvement, she expressed similar criticisms of my actions."

"She thought it was improper for you to carry me here?" Mr. Darcy heard subtle concern overtake the teasing in Elizabeth's voice. She genuinely was worried about her reputation. She was in every way the opposite of all the horrible things Aunt Catherine had spewed about her.

"Pray forgive my directness, but what did she say?"

"Hateful lies that are not worth repeating."

" , you once told me you abhorred false pretenses." Though each of them blushed at that unfortunate recollection, Elizabeth pressed on. "You need not concern yourself with sparing my feelings, and I implore you to tell me the full truth so that I may know what I am up against." Darcy decided that as difficult as it would be to repeat his aunt's words, Elizabeth should be prepared.

"Lady Catherine claimed that you put yourself in harm's way on purpose in order to force a compromise."

The absurdity of being accused for something so wholly contradictory to her every intention shook Elizabeth into bewilderment, which for a half-moment allowed her to forget the awkwardness of the conversation.

"I fear your Aunt missed her calling as a novelist. Such tales would put our dear Mrs. Radcliffe to shame . . . That a woman would seriously risk her health on the off chance that a man would come along and save her! It is too ridiculous! Are you certain you did not misunderstand her?"

Mr. Darcy remembered all the awkwardness for both of them, and could not meet Elizabeth's eye as he continued. "There was no mistaking her meaning, and I fear she was entirely serious. She was made to believe that her parson, your cousin Mr. Collins, had previously offered for your hand." Here he glanced up to confirm, and at Elizabeth's blush of acknowledgement, grimaced and continued. "My Aunt somehow made it seem that you refused Mr. Collins' offer _because_ you had 'set your cap' at me . . . She thinks you are an artful fortune hunter and that your aim in nearly killing yourself was to become the next Mrs. Darcy . . . "

Though Mr. Darcy usually preferred Elizabeth's laughter over any other sound, hearing it now, protruding from the suggestion that she could have desired to marry him, cut him to the core. He knew she meant no harm in it, that the hollow, desperate sound arose from extreme discomfort, disbelief, and perhaps fear for her reputation, but that knowledge did little to sooth his immediate hurt. He heard her laugh at the idea of being his wife. She was so wholly opposed to him that the mention of a fictitious connection with his name drove her to her current state of unmitigated shock. _The last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry._ At the memory of her words, he responded coldly.

"Believe me, Miss Bennet, the irony of these accusations was not lost on me. I warn you not to take my aunt so lightly, she is not above slandering your name or reputation."

Elizabeth sobered at the sudden change in his demeanor. She felt hurt at the loss of his kindness and then foolish for her hurt feelings. Why should she care if he was distant, cold, or demeaning? He was still Mr. Darcy, despite whatever tenuous companionship they might have shared for the past hour or so. It mattered not at all, and if Mr. Darcy, with his exhausting emotions, had settled on haughty indifference, so would she. "Is there a reason in particular that your Aunt intends to ruin me? Or is it common for her to besmirch house guests?"

"She sees you as a threat."

"If Lady Catherine is threatened by anyone who does not immediately succumb to her whims, or who even slightly challenges her self-imported authority over their lives . . ."

Darcy, recovering from his perceived rejection, attempted to make amends. "I think, Miss Bennet, you do not give yourself enough credit. Your impact was anything but slight; I doubt my aunt has ever been treated the way she was by you."

Unfortunately for both of them, Mr. Darcy, though not an incapable pupil, was far from mastering the art of teasing. What he meant as an admiration of Elizabeth's wit and admonishment of his Aunt's imposing nature was delivered with flat timing and more severity than intended. Combined with his recent display of disregard, the effect of his comment was one of censure rather than praise of Elizabeth's actions.

For her part, Elizabeth was reminded of the last time she heard 's reproach against her. At his proposal, he had chastised her situation in life and had been merciless in his criticism of her family. To hear him now admonish _her_ treatment of _his_ family member awakened Elizabeth's desire for justice. Despite her extreme frustration and the tightness in the back of her throat, Elizabeth very nearly managed a steady, light tone.

"It is difficult for me to believe, Mr. Darcy, that any member of your family could consider me a threat. In my understanding, to be a threat necessitates some acknowledgement, regard, or respect from those threatened. Those of your family in my acquaintance have taken pains to communicate how decidedly inferior I am, and surely a lowly being cannot be respected or feared."

She smiled in challenge and Darcy paled. How had the conversation gone so far away from him? He felt her judgment, that to her he was equally as self-important as his aunt, that he too had made her feel inferior. A wash of shame mingled with some defensive anger over his neck and cheeks. Did she insinuate that he had no respect for her? How could she think he would want to marry a woman he did not respect?

"My Aunt Catherine is hardly a fair representation of my entire family."

"No, indeed, and as I said, I base my judgment on all of your kin that I have had the pleasure of meeting, and I will attempt to make a balanced assessment. Though Lady Catherine De Bourgh has publicly bemoaned my prospects, situation, and education, she _did_ attempt to improve on the latter by allowing me access to an instrument in her servant's quarters. I do wonder though that a lady of such discernment should be appalled by my manner towards herself when it must, in her esteem, be only as wanting as every other aspect of my personhood."

Had the candle been a bit brighter, Elizabeth might have noticed how Mr. Darcy seemed to physically reject the notion that there was fault in _any_ aspect of her personhood.

"But your aunt is not the only one who went out of their way to remind me of my deficiencies. Her daughter has never spoken ill of me directly, but has thwarted my every attempt at civil conversation with haughtiness. She has also, on multiple occasions, ignored mine and Charlotte's discomfort in favor of her own convenience, even going so far as to make us stand in the cold for half an hour because she refused to come inside and out of her carriage."

Darcy was properly mortified. How had he, thinking himself honest and just, enumerated the flaws in Elizabeth's family when his own had displayed at least equally deplorable behavior. He wanted to apologize for his own actions and for the way Elizabeth had been treated, but the lady continued on a surprising course of conversation.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam seems a lively, good spirited sort of person and engaging conversation partner. He, at least, was more tactful in his admonishment. He merely dissuaded me from forming an attachment by indicating that my lack of fortune and non-existent connections were too wanting to support the second son of an Earl. Rather presumptuous, to be sure, but kindly meant at least.

Darcy felt an immediate, irrational burst of anger towards Richard for being arrogant enough to assume Elizabeth's affection, before remembering he had made the same error, ten-fold.

"Your own assessment of my insufficiency I will not repeat, but be content in the knowledge that you were the most successful by far in your degradation of my person."

Elizabeth's throat then seized and despite her best efforts, she felt her air of lightness collapse. How vexing that her little effort at retribution had left her feeling more exposed than before. For a moment, Darcy and Elizabeth merely stared at each other, while Elizabeth worked to regain an evenness of breath. It was a brief moment.

"So you see, Mr. Darcy, I think you must be mistaken. For your aunt to view me as a threat, she must respect me, and your entire family has made it your cause to show me how undeserving of respect, how powerless you think I am."

Though Elizabeth forcibly regained her composure and even managed to flash a bright, defiant smile, her eyes betrayed the hurt behind her words. There were many things Darcy wished to say; he had apologies, questions, and words of defense, but all that managed to come out was: "You are wrong."

Elizabeth braced for further conflict. She worked for a steady tone, though at this point she was so confused, frustrated, and exhausted that all she wanted was to be left alone for a short cry and some sleep. Nevertheless, she persisted. "Please enlighten me then, Mr. Darcy, what did I say that was inaccurate?"

"I take no issue with your assessment of mine and my family's actions, Miss Bennet. I trust that they are all justified. Yet your conclusion could not be farther from the truth. You must know you hold complete power over _me_."

Elizabeth froze, she did not know what she had been expecting, but it was not _that_. She had never desired to hold power over anyone, least of all Mr. Darcy. Desperately, she tried to form a response but all she could think of were the words he spoke to her just days ago. " _You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."_ He had said many things on the night of the proposal which overshadowed sentiment, but now it was laid bare again.

She felt panic rise. Her heart beat in her throat, she felt her nails pierce her palms, and despite her best efforts she could not control her breath. She felt consecutive waves of guilt, then pity, then anger with herself for allowing such feelings when none of this was her fault, really.

Mr. Darcy seemed aware of her struggle and jumped in with kindness, if more than a bit of discomfort.

"Miss Bennet, please do not trouble yourself, I did not mean to- you do not need- that is, I do not wish to make you uneasy . . ."

As he spoke, Elizabeth chose to focus her attention on the absent-minded circles he traced in the carpet.

"You have already made your feelings well known on this subject and I only need to apologize for referencing my own, which must be upsetting to you. I assure you that I will not try to change yours- of course I _would_ \- I _do_ want- I will al-

His fingers changed direction often and Elizabeth studied them intently. She searched for some method to the movements, but they seemed entirely unpredictable.

"-But none of that is of any importance because _you_ do not, and I know this and will never press you to change. That is to say, I am genuinely content and can want for nothing now that I know you are alive."

The gentleman's fingers stilled with his speech. For a brief moment, Elizabeth looked directly at the man across from her, whose pattern-less feelings had suddenly become clear. She could no longer hide from or excuse away the obvious conclusion that Mr. Darcy was very much in love with her. Elizabeth struggled to appear calm despite feeling herself buzz with nervous energy. Once adequately composed, she whispered two words:

"And awake."


End file.
